PSOH A Thousand Words To Say Three Things
by tigersilver
Summary: The victim of a freak accident in a city unfamiliar, Leon dreams of 'then' and 'now' and has a taste of better things. Still, he's not sure when he got so chatty....


PSOH A Thousand Words to Say Three Things

Leon was in the hospital again. He often ended up in some clinic or the other, being the type 'act first, think later!', but this time he actually needed some honest-to-gawd medical attention—

Or, so he thought they were saying. His French was weak and they despised his stumbling American accent, though the nurses sure seemed to like his buff body well enough when they stripped him down for the daily spongebath. As long as he kept his mouth shut – and since his throat was hurting anyway – Leon was treated like a foreign prince. A fucking 'hero', actually, and all for one damned stray dog.

Both legs were broken, two ribs cracked. He'd gotten a concussion and managed to bruise his back on a wrought iron lamp post and his chest on the fucking Fiat's tiny bumper, too. It all meant he wouldn't be chasing after D for more fucking weeks than Leon was comfortable with.

There was this urgency, this lost sensation that twisted his gut at odd moments when the sun was out, or woke him in a cold sweat when it was not. The medication that dripped so methodically into his left arm did nothing to prevent it; he was losing precious time, lying here, with every passing second, all for the sake of one damned dog.

"One damned dog, one damned mutt, one stupid mongrel," chanted the dwarves in unison, and used their little hammers on his skull in perfect time.

"Not _damned,_ Detective!" he could almost hear the Count tutting. "Or no more damned than _you _are, Leon, what with your nasty swearing and nicotine stains and lack of proper washing. Disgraceful, especially in an officer! What were you thinking?"

Leon blinked at the lovely angel in white who was attending him and dizzily tried to recall again exactly what he had been thinking. _If_ he had been actually thinking at all - oh, yeah, it was how he'd ended up here, in this place of starch and bleach and bandages. He admitted freely his recollection was kind of hazy after the car smashed into him. He didn't really know how he'd had the superhuman strength required to toss the bedraggled canine of out harm's way before he, himself, was mowed down. He didn't remember leaping and twisting athletically and then being tossed himself, a ragdoll in freefall, though he'd been damned sure he'd heard a distinct voice slicing through the brilliant night – one he'd recognize no matter how many years passed, one that was engraved into his heart.

"Leon!"

The sad-eyed mutt was safe and well and woofing softly, caught tight in arms layered in blue silk charmeuse and cloaked by boiled wool.

Leon had an impression, faint and very brief, of the hiss of that same royal blue silk wrapping around his own battered body, of his startled eyes catching a staggering glimpse of midnight hair fluttering before the cascade of blood from the slice on his forehead blinded him. Salt-sweet red clogged his vision; trickled languidly into his open mouth, and he put an explanatory hand out to catch the sleeve of the one next to him – or thought he did. He was going to explain this and that (he had so much to say), but there was only the gleam of a chromed bumper, rain-slick and bouncing from the impact, and the hardness of the street lamp pressing insistently at his aching back before rapid blood loss closed the curtains firmly and all went dark.

The driver staggered from his dented car and cursed an eloquent streak in a cultured accent, his wife screaming in counterpoint. A blonde man – obviously American, judging by those blue jeans and his unkempt hair – was sprawled unconscious, half-propped by a still vibrating metal lamppost. There was a small dog howling and blood simply everywhere, glistening as it streamed onto tarmac and cobblestones.

And nothing else.

"_Leon," the familiar voice whispered, sad and poignant, regretful. He heard the wail of sirens cutting through it and thought he clenched his hand on a trailing sleeve to keep him…but D was gone. Nothing there, as always. _

"Leon, are you better?"

No, not gone. The hand on his brow was paler even than the moonlight. Leon felt it through the narcotics that swam merrily through his bloodstream and thought it a dream, like any other. He'd had so many of those they were comfortable – a second skin.

"D," he sighed through parched lips. An ice chip was pressed against them, numbing and refreshing, and the ex-detective was immensely grateful to his ministering angel.

_Just like D, to think of comfort. Just like D, to be a dream. _

The hand left abruptly – Leon missed it – and found the edges of the regulation grey wool blanket. The American's bedclothes were straightened and Leon's echoing ears drank in the Count's typical murmuring fuss over their state of untidiness as if every syllable were a healing balm.

It must have been; when he woke the next morning, his head was so much clearer –so sharp he could feel every one of the multiple fractures, the many stitches, the bothersome ribs.

In the silence of early morning – the birds outside his window were still sleepy, chirping drowsily – the ex-cop lay still and waited for the next thing to happen. He knew it would, somehow. There was a pregnant expectation in the chill dawn air, a sense of anticipation quickening his pulse.

As he lay, Leon considered, sorting out fact from fantasy, truth from lie. He was in the hospital, he knew that. Somewhere in Paris, City of Lights. He even knew why he was here, to the extent his shaken brain allowed him memories of car and street and starved puppy. He could understand his recent feverish dreams of a certain absent Count – they were normal, those somnolent encounters with the very person he was so doggedly pursuing; nothing unusual in that. Looking back, his actions of the previous night (or was it last night, after all? He didn't know.) all made sense, sort of, though he hadn't believed before that he was the type to throw away his life for the sake of some dumb animal or even that the practical, hard-headed Count he recalled so clearly would want him to do such a wasteful thing.

And so he'd told him, that damned lying bastard, after assuring the overly-protective Count he was just fine—

"Ribs, schmibs, D! Tell me what the hell you're doing here! I've been looking for you, goddamnit!"

"Oh…Leon," the Count smiled, a worried version of his usual annoying smirk, and soothed his pretty hand across Leon's puzzled forehead again, the manicured tips of his long talons smooth and painted a lovely mauve. It felt so wonderful Leon closed his eyes for a just a quick minute, though he'd sworn up and down never to take his eyes off the Count again once he'd caught him.

D smelled good, thought a groggy Leon, and was going to accuse the Count of that, but once again, when his foggy eyes finally opened there was no one sitting by his bedside, comforting him in the wee hours of the night.

It had been so damned long since Dream D had actually talked back to him, answered him in real conversation about the events of _here_ and _now_, he'd finally gotten used to speaking silent soliloquies without the benefit of his intended audience. Still, he couldn't stop talking (well, at least he'd stopped talking to the invisible Count _aloud)_, thinking of all the important points he wanted to make about humankind and the stubborn hope he, Leon Orcot, had for them, despite D's understandable bitterness, and too, what about D's telling weakness for Christopher? How could a cold, uncaring D cut his connection so easily to the child who adored him? Shouldn't that selfish bastard be thinking of the effect their little boy for a change? Chris was growing up – D was missing out! How had he been able to leave him – them – behind so blithely and then have the gall to stay 'gone', like he didn't give a hoot?

Yes, Leon had a few choice things to say to that sly bastard, words rehearsed over and over. First and foremost, could D just explain his harsh, abrupt abandonment of his 'family' to his old buddy Leon, in simple words with few syllables; give him some good reason even a dumb ex-American cop could understand?

---And why did it have to hurt so much, the way D had done it? It was cruel, a sideways and backwards attack that had bowled a recovering Leon over. The Count had gone without a single, solitary word, not even a polite visit to the hospital Leon had woken in – couldn't D have stopped in at least once to say 'hi, how are you?' before he left on that stupid cloud ship?

And what was the harm in staying around, anyway? It wasn't like anybody was still after him – after Vesca passed, the interest had died. D could've kept his Shop going, and Leon wouldn't have said a word about it. Well, as long as the bloodshed was kept to a minimum.

But there was more, always more, building up in his throat, choking the ex-Detective with anger. This – these things he could not articulate - was more nebulous and had no clear handles to grab on to. He couldn't manage to make it into pretty speeches or angry words. This- this drive to see D again, regardless - was just pure feeling and, being Leon, he'd only known that he had to put it into action to understand it.

…Did the Count somehow know the reason Leon was in Paris? Munich, before that? New York City, London, Amsterdam, the Cote d'Azure? Did he get actually 'get' it, and was mocking Leon's efforts from a safe distance, always elusive and on the move, so that Leon had no choice but to move on himself? It certainly seemed that way, Leon reflected, for he'd managed to get much closer than D could tolerate the last few times and thus, D had gotten farther and farther ahead while the ex-detective frantically nosed over clues.

The door chimes had still been ringing at the little Shop in Belgium. He'd smelt leftover incense in the abandoned rooms on Portobello Road, so fresh he could still see the curling smoke. In Madrid, there'd been Oolong tea in one solitary cup, cooling, and three bakery-fresh cream cakes left on a filigree platter, crumbs scattered genteelly across an embroidered linen tablecloth Leon remembered from Los Angeles, a thousand, million, zillion miles and moons ago.

So close, and yet so far. He had so much to say it poured out in torrents, filling hastily emptied rooms with a flood of despairing questions and protests at being treated so fucking rudely. Hadn't they been friends once? Didn't D remember that at all?

"My dear," the door opened and one of those Parisian lookers (all ebony hair and long legs) traipsed in, clad in starched white cotton, and carefully approached his bed, "How do you feel now? Better after sleeping?"

*

"D!" Leon croaked, wide-eyed – this was fucking _unexpected_ - and then he lunged and grabbed, locking on to the Count's thin wrists with hands made strong from itinerant manual labor. He hauled D in, like a tuna caught surf-fishing, and wrapped his bruised fingers as tight as he could, shackling the Count in a grip as good as handcuffs.

_Not letting go – not letting go!_

"Aaarggh-shit! That fucking _hurt_!"

Leon flopped back against the pillows, wheezing, and incidentally dragged the uniformed Count onto his hospital bed, and – accidentally on purpose – onto his lap, as well, bringing the mismatched gaze within inches of his own startled sea-blue eyes. The Count squirmed, protesting wordlessly, his prim nurse's cap knocked askew in the effort.

"Come here, you!"

"Detective! Please unhand me – I was merely enquiring as to your health. There is no need to be so rough, Leon."

The fashionably short skirt of D's nurse uniform had ridden up one silky thigh. It was an open invitation if Leon ever saw one.

"Huh," remarked a disbelieving Orcot, wrenching a short, hard breath into his constricted lungs. He gripped harder, transferring both wrists to one large hand, and tried to slide a sly arm around the protesting Count, succeeding despite the pain it cost him. "Tell it to the Marines, Houdini."

D wriggled fiercely and set his teeth, tugging determinedly at the fingers that imprisoned him, but the 'Detective' held on with a death grip. Still, the Count was moving carefully, so as not to not to harm his pet detective with unnecessary force.

"—_Leon_—let go!"

"Not so fucking fast, you asshole! Where the hell have you _been_?!"

"—_Leon_—"

"Do you know how long I've been following you! Do you, Mister Pet Shop Owner? Well, lemme tell you—"

"Really. Let. Go."

"No."

And then the detective kissed D, which was perfect timing, because the Count had his pretty mouth open and Leon only had to slide his tongue in and take command.

D liked that; he purred after a few seconds and reversed his resistance, snuggling closer. It was fucking fabulous – exactly what the ex-detective needed after two-and-a-half years of hell.

Hospital beds are narrow. Leon took advantage of that, rolling his captive under him as soon as he was able to think about the next move in this game of 'Catch' they'd been playing.

"Leon."

The nurse's uniform was buttoned crosswise across one shoulder. He bit off the circles of white plastic and spit them out as D sputtered in outrage. His poor wrecked body was screaming at him all the while, but Leon never heard.

"You're ruining it, you heathen! I paid good money for this, Leon—"

"Mnn. Okay, whatever." Leon noticed D wasn't bitching in the slightest about being fondled, so he just kissed him again to shut him up.

He was already in a hospital gown, so that was no problem. D had a skirt on and now his upper chest and nipples were exposed by Leon's earlier forays, so that was all to the good. They were all set… if D would actually allow it.

"D," he urged insistently, pushing his aching crotch against the slim hips below him. "D!"

"…Just a moment, my dear ex-detective. I believe we should discuss this before we go farther."

Clear purple-and-gold smiled up at him and the Count ran a searching finger along the line of Leon's stubbly jaw. The casts on Leon's legs knocked against his stockinged knees, shoving them apart.

"You shouldn't be quite so hasty, Leon. Time--"

"Discuss what?" Leon huffed and remembered his anger. It bloomed in his aching ribcage and spread up his throat. "That you left me? That you fucking left me without one fucking word as to when I would see you again or whether you'd be back?"

"Now, Leon." The marvelous eyes narrowed.

"Y'know, I don't _want_ to talk about that, D. I don't want to know, even. I used to care about that shit last _year_ sometime - so it's a little fucking late to be talking about it now, don't you think?"

"You…don't care? You're not interested?" The eyes grew wider and full red lips tightened the faintest degree. The Count no longer fought the hands that bound him. He stayed very still, instead, dangerously so – but his detective was beyond caring.

"No! I don't fucking care about any of it, asshole! I don't want to know what your reasons were for running away like a coward. I could give a shit about why you deliberately hid from me or what the hell you've been doing! Screw that crap!"

"But. But, why not, Detective?" D blinked those marvelous eyes in confusion. "Aren't you in the least bit curious? It was a very long time, after all," he murmured doubtfully. "I know _I _would wonder."

Leon grinned, suddenly happy to have knocked the omniscient Count off-balance, even if it was over such a minor matter. He _did_ care – but he didn't. Not right now.

It all came down to one thing, one very important thing. Something he wanted as much as he wanted that next breath.

Silent, serious, Leon took a hand from D's wrist and slid it up his skirt instead, finding what he was tentatively seeking after a second's fumbling. The Count instantly drew in a quick breath and tensed under the slide of blunt fingertips. His eyes narrowed again to glittering slits and he shifted, almost imperceptibly.

"Leon?"

With a heart-felt sigh, the ex-detective let his aching head fall just enough to allow their foreheads to meet, tan against milk-white, and poked his beaky nose against D's aquiline one.

"I don't want to hear your explanations, D," he murmured. "I don't care about them – they'll only hurt me anyway, right? I just want this," and here the American curved his fingers very slightly, cupping what was gently grasped within them, and brought his hand up just enough to make the Count flinch. D sucked in another harsh draught of air and reared back against the confines of the hospital bed.

"This."

"_Leon."_

"Make it better, D. Stop lying. Don't fucking talk to me anymore – just show me!"

Mentally scrapping all those speeches and rants he had ready, tossing out all those curse and accusations of betrayal as if they were so much garbage, Leon buried his grimacing face in the fragrant hollow of D's long throat, muttering.

"Show me, touch me; make it seem real again, D. Don't leave me hanging like that, not ever again."

He shut himself up, his mouth opening wide to taste the flutter of D's pulse, his tongue softly gracing the indentation where D's throat met the line of his shoulders.

"Mnn."

"Oh…! Leon," D sighed as he was unabashedly eaten, hard lips nibbling his fine-grained skin, teeth closing over the swell of his sensitive earlobe. The ruby stud gleaming there was suckled, flesh engulfed by a hot, wet mouth, and then Leon moved on, thrusting tongue into the cavity of D's ear, strands of black silk tangling in his teeth.

D turned his head, reflexively, and met the mate that waited. They tangled tongues, silent but for tiny slurps and gasps, and infinitesimally the Count relaxed, easing back into the pillows and the hard mattress, sufficient for Leon's tentative hand to grasp his pointy chin and hold him steady under the hungry onslaught.

Leon was hampered, laden down with plaster-of-Paris and bandages; his shifting ribs a sharp reminder of recent punishment. He paid no heed, however, shoving the undeniable discomfort far back, allowing himself to become liquid and flowing, easing into the Count's very pores with his insistence.

D allowed it; more than allowed it – he met every turn and twist with his own, sucking on Leon's tongue like a seasoned geisha, digging his fingernails seductively into his detective's broad shoulders. They wrestled, playfully, muted, though the quick give-and-take reminded Leon of their long-ago arguments: fast and furious and fresh with passion.

He didn't ask before he hauled the hem of D's white skirt the rest of the way up his thighs; he didn't give D a chance to object, either. With a muffled groan, he tore his mouth away and nuzzled into the warm hollow of D's navel, questing fingertips scouting the way before him.

The Count arched up into a gentle curve, and said nothing to stop it. It seemed inevitable, the next step, the next move and it was with a sense of that thundering deep in his chest that Leon Orcot, gay virgin, took his first – _and only, only!_ – cock deep into the flinching depths of his throat.

_D was beautiful just beautiful_. Leon had always known that, of course, but nothing prepared him for this translation.

"Oh, oh!" and "Mmm!" and "Darling!" poured forth softly form the elegantly splayed figure beneath him. Leon grinned and swallowed and took D ever deeper, nearly gagging himself with the effort.

This was not a dream, after all, nor any feverish vision induced by morphine. There was no denying the salt-sweet taste of D trickling down Leon's gullet or the heat of the bared thighs that seethed beneath him. He kneaded them, loving the way D instantly shoved against his palms, and spent a moment or two licking them into submission.

It was looking good; all systems 'go', until the door opened.

*

/Woof!/

~Whaaat?~

Beneath his clutching fingers, bare skin was covered in flowered silk. Leon looked up – and up. Two faces peered at him, one achingly familiar, one totally strange.

"Detective, how are you today? Resting comfortably?" asked the strange one.

~Excuse me, but I'm in the middle of sex here?!~ is what Leon was planning to answer – but he didn't, 'cause though he could've sworn he still had a mouthful of Count, suddenly that didn't seem to be case anymore.

D giggled, a sound muffled by one hand. A painted fan snapped open to hide the rest of his smile. His hair was absolutely perfect.

"Leon?"

It took the cold rim of the stranger's stethoscope to make Orcot scramble off D's lap, an ungainly move that nearly tipped him off the bed, too. As it was, his casted legs crashed together, jarring his spine. He sat up gingerly, disgruntled and well on the way to querulous.

"Who the fuck are _you_?"

"Why, I'm your doctor, Mr. Orcot. Who did you think I was?"

This one was another knockout, tall and brunette, though her glorious hair flopped into her eyes a little and she was wearing gold-rimmed glasses. Still, her legs were gloriously long and her waist was tiny – and that ineffable air of 'nice girl' was distinctly offset by the waft of 'sultry' that assaulted his nose.

"Dr. Andersson, actually, Mr. Orcot," smiled the lovely physician. "We met just recently."

Leon gulped.

"I'll just check your heart rate now, Mr. Orcot. Stay still, please."

His wrist was taken gently and cool fingers were laid against the skin of his forearm. D watched the procedure in silence, a faint smile on his red lips.

_Whatever_, Leon fumed – he probably _did_ have a doctor of his very own in this weird French hospital, since he had enough injuries for _three _patients. That made sense – but what really bugged him right now was that D was up to his old tricks again (changing into one of those dress things when he'd just been delightfully bare; holding a fan and not a thermometer; perched on the edge of the bed like a fucking visitor when Leon had been just about to--!)

There was no faint odor of incense, no subtle haze that signified 'Count D Magic'. Either D had gotten a lot more subtle or Leon was still dreaming.

And that was the last thing he needed, to be dreaming. He wasted too much time stumbling around in limbo already and D was _right here_!

Not pausing to think about how his action might appear to the good doctor, Leon snaked his other hand out and grabbed D's sleeve tightly, twisting it between his determined fingers. No way, no how was D leaving him again!

"I'm afraid your pulse is somewhat elevated, Mr. Orcot."

No shit! What did they expect?! His dick was still hard, too!

"Director?" Sherry-colored eyes turned to the Count.

"_**Director**__?!_"

D smiled – or rather, the one that already faintly graced his scarlet lips bloomed. He lowered dark lashes over mismatched purple-and-gold and contrived to appear humble, fan to his chest.

"For my pains, yes, Leon. I _am _the temporary Director of this hospital---"

No way! No wonder he didn't remember an ER or sirens or anything else which in his ample experience screamed 'hospital!' D had simply swept him under his proverbial wing and brought him here without so much as a by-your-leave! The nerve! That bastard!

/Woof?/

"Which is, of course, why you are _here_, Leon, and not at some other establishment."

"Director? I believe we should administer a light sedative now, sir. Mr. Orcot seems to be rather—"

Huh? Leon could've sworn there was a mutt in the room for a second there – the same damned good-for-nothing hound he'd risked life and limb to save!

But…but the voice that blended into the bark was all too human. Orcot's trained gaze swiveled at once to the suspect.

"Excited, and that can't be good for his health, or the healing process," amber eyes turned back to meet his, aglow with professional concern, "so, if you don't mind, sir, I'll just go ahead with the injection."

The cool fingers that had rested so gently on his wrist returned with lightning swiftness. His arm was stretched out, even as his blue eyes widened in horror.

"You'll be able to visit with Mr. Orcot later, when he wakes up."

"D!"

_No. Fucking. Way._

"Sir, if you would be so kind?"

_No! He couldn't be—she couldn't be!_

"D! This is that damned dog, isn't it? **D!**"

At Dr. Andersson's quiet behest, the Count smoothly handed over a metal tray holding a long silvered glass needle, already dripping with something purely terrifying.

Leon's fingers went from silk sleeve to fine-boned wrist with jerky desperation. He tugged it, jolting D, and the razored tip of the injection rattled nastily against the sterilized steel.

"_**D! Don't do this to me!**_ _**Please!**_"

"Leon, hush. It's alright." Gold-and-purple eyes were gentle as they regarded him, almost pitying.

"Trust me."

"Sir!"

The fucking bitch really was a professional. In two seconds flat, she'd swabbed the flinching flesh on the inside of his elbow and then stuck him, swift and steady.

"_D_….!"

It was an anguished moan – _he knew it, knew it, goddamnit, but refused to believe it!_ _How could he?!–_ and the Count and the flickering doctor were already fading from view.

"I'll…be… here…Don't fear. Leon."

The ex-detective heard the soft voice only faintly through the cotton wool muffling his ears. From his new vantage point floating somewhere near the low, white-paneled ceiling, a twitchy, bereft Orcot watched as his limp body was laid gently lowered onto his waiting hospital bed.

He blinked, dry-eyed, and saw nothing before him but grim shades of grey, repeating.

_Repeating. _

"Don't fear it, Leon," D's tone was honey-sweet, melting into Leon's placid brain. "It's only sleep, love. You _must _sleep to recover, dear one."

[_Hadn't they been friends once? Didn't D remember that at all?_]

"I'll be right by your side when you awake, Leon. I promise. Trust me, hmm? Just a little longer."

[_It all came down to one thing. O_ne thing_. Something he wanted as much as he wanted that next breath. More._]

"Leon. _My_ Leon."

A thin woolen coverlet was twitched over him by the very hand that had so easily eluded his grasp earlier. Fingertips rose to smooth Leon's lank blonde hair from his brow in a loving gesture that would've had the hard-boiled ex-detective sobbing in relief – had he felt it.

_Trust me. _

[It had been so _damned _long since Dream D had actually talked back to him; so fucking long since that beloved voice had actually answered him in _real _conversation about the events of _here_ and _now_, that Leon couldn't stop talking—couldn't stop talking—couldn't stop]


End file.
